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ne of the things I love so much about running is that within each and every race there is only one winner; however the winner might not have had the best run that day. Most winners of races dont have their greatest runs; they simply ran fast enough to win. The accolade of greatest run is often left to someone in the back of the pack who ran out of their skull and had their greatest race ever. A person whose hard work and dedication finally paid off and caused someone to utter, Wow, where did that come from? Ive been lucky enough to win my share of foot races, but the reality is nearly all my top performances have resulted in losses. I have gone through old trophies of events that Ive championed and struggled to remember one single detail about the race, sometimes I cant recall running the race at all, let alone winning it. That is not the case with the Manhattan to Peekskill Road Relay. The relay is the brain child of my father who fashioned the event after a similar race, the Edinburgh to Glasgow Road Relay, in his homeland of Scotland. In my fathers version, teams of eight runners would cover a 52 mile course that started in NYC and traveled north to finish at a park situated on the banks of the Hudson River. This was my fathers running baby. Harry wore the race directors hat for many local races within the Taconic Road Runners Club. The Manhattan to Peekskill Road Relay was without question his crowning jewel. For years he poured his heart and soul into this event making it many competitors favorite race of the year. While reminiscing of events past, I recalled my dad telling me about the time Fred Lebow wanted to get involved with the relay. Fred Lebow is the founder of the NYC Marathon and one of the greatest developers of road races that ever lived. He is the reason the NYC Marathon is what it is today, the largest and in my opinion the greatest marathon in the world. My dad had gotten a phone call from fellow TRRC member, Dan Caffery. Dan is one of the founding members of TRRC and stood as the clubs first president in its initial decade of existence. Harry, listen. Fred wants to be a part of the relay and wants to know what it will take, the club president explained. Well, what do you think? My dad was extremely loyal to his friends and it was important to him to maintain that loyalty. He wasnt about to make any decision on this event without the consent of the club president, even if this was his race. Eh, Dan replied, Were fine with things the way they are. I asked my dad what he finally said to Fred Lebow. We told him to piss off, was his immediate reply. My dad then went on to explain that during the height of the relay he had achieved an operating budget of $20,000. Lebow had secured two million in sponsorships and elected to put on his own relay that lasted one year. To qualify for the TRRC team, a runner had to finish in the top 8 of the clubs championship. Lucky for me, I finished 6th. Unlike track relays such as the 4 X 400, the fastest member of the road relay doesnt run the last leg. In this case the fastest runs the first because its the longest. Thus this honor was awarded to our fastest, Kevin Wynne. I was given our anchor leg. The morning of the race our 8th runner asked Kevin if the two could switch legs. He explained that he wanted to watch his wife run for her team and she had one of the later legs for the clubs womens team. He wouldnt be able to see her if he ran his original leg.

Kevin agreed. I was pissed. We now had our fastest runner on the shortest leg and our slowest runner on the longest leg. I was also single and in my early 20s, what the hell did I know about racing versus relationships? As expected, we lost a lot of ground the first leg and the squad struggled to make up that ground. While Kevin made up significant ground, he simply didnt have enough real estate to match what was lost. No worries, there werent any cameras there, ESPN wasnt covering the event and I tried my best to convince myself it was a honor to even be part of team. By the time it was my turn to represent my team we had secured a lead over the next club. The last leg was 6.1 miles and was very familiar terrain to me seeing as it was in my stomping grounds. Both teams were assembled at the exchange point as I anxiously awaited my chance to go. Hey Neeson, shouted one of the other competitors, Whats your 10K time? The 10K is popular road racing distance only a tenth of a mile longer than the upcoming leg. I just ran 34:30. See, he said to my counterpart who is awaiting his turn as well, You just ran 33 flat. You got him by a minute and thirty seconds. How much of a lead do we have? I asked one of my teammates. 45 seconds, man. F@#%! That just shot to hell the game plan of hammering the course I had been reviewing in my head for the past 4 hours. The plan then was to go out fairly conservatively knowing Id most likely get caught by mile 3. My hope was that he would start out with guns ablaze and I could use my knowledge of the last mile, which contained some down hills, to my advantage. My teammate charged into the exchange zone exhausted and covered in sweat. A simple tag and off I went. I went out strong, but not as strong as Id have liked because I needed to save some energy for the second half. Not even three minutes into the leg and my team vehicle came cruising by shouting words of encouragement. Two steps later I got passed by the other teams runner. I had been caught in a little over a half mile, a 45 second lead gone in three minutes. On to plan C, I picked up the pace and latched onto his back like Canadian geese flying south for the winter. Throughout most of the day the team vans would make one or two stops along the course during each leg. For the two of us, on this last leg, they were stopping every half mile. I imagined the conversation for both parties in each vehicle was something to the effect of, Whens Tommy going to crack? But I didnt. I clung to him mile after mile, and matched him stride for stride, all the time telling myself I just had to make it to the last mile. I could crush the last mile. There was a noticeable incline before the last mile and I found myself digging into my energy reserves more than Id have liked to in order to stay in contact with him. The echoes of my dads old advice reverberated in my head, The one who gets to the top of the hill first has control of the race. I made my move with 50 yards left on the hill. It wasnt a decisive move, just enough to take the lead, which was the first time I had done so since being overtaken at the half mile mark. We crested the hill and I knew there was a mile to go, and it was time to push. I popped off and opened a several yard lead almost immediately. My teammates in the van were going crazy watching the action unfold. I must have looked like a gazelle cruising down that street with the way I was moving. I felt strong and powerful as my legs floated along the blacktop. The labored breathing of my opponent

drew closer as he pulled up alongside me, but didnt pass. Bam! I was off again, increasing the already feverish pace. Another lead was made and the energy from the van was pouring out onto the race course and into my spine. I couldnt hear what they are saying, but I could feel every bit of their excitement. This move seemed to be more effective than the last one as it took even longer for me to hear the strenuous pants from behind me to reach the back of my right shoulder. BAM! I was off yet again, just as he caught me. Hysteria had broken out amongst my teammates as both vans stayed glued to the finishing battle royal. My legs felt like that couldnt move any faster. The turnover I was generating was incredible and I started thinking I couldnt possibly go any faster. Soon there was less than a quarter mile to go, and each move was making a bigger and bigger impact on this race. I was failing to understand how I could continue to run so fast, but amazingly, my body wasnt giving in. Whatever I seemed to ask of it, it complied. My tattered opponent again dared to occupy the road in unison with me. I went again. My legs moved faster and faster, and I was certain they had never moved this fast before. There was just no way they could mechanically move any faster. As Scotty on Star Trek would say, Imma givin er all shes got! One more turn and the finish line would be in sight. I began to see the crowd that had gathered to see their respective teams finish. A few more steps and she started to come in sight--the finish line banner was visible and I could see the time clocks green neon numbers ticking away second by second. At that very moment my adversary unleashed a finishing kick and cruised past me like I was jogging. My legs, at that point, just didnt possess the ability to go any faster. It was over; I was beaten. I collapsed after crossing the finish in sheer exhaustion and crushed by total disappointment. 52 miles, 8 legs, and we lost by 2 seconds, about the length of park bench. It was, and always will be, the greatest race of my life.